Begone, dull slaves of ease and gain!

Men in your city's noisy streets

The rubbish sweep.... a useful work!

But think ye that the prophet-priests,

Forgetful of their calling high,

Will quit the altar-sacrifice,

And meekly take in hands your brooms?

To take part in the world's turmoil,

In sordid gain, in vulgar strife,

We are not born, but have received

The inspired gift of sweetest song.

A WINTER MORNING.

The frost and sun; a glorious day!

And thou, my sweetling, still dost sleep:

'Tis time, my fairest, to awake:

Ope quick thine eyes with slumber dulled,

And gladly hail the Northern Morn,

Shine forth, thyself the Northern Star!

Last night the snow-storm whirled and roared,

The sky was hidden in white mist;

The yellow moon peered feebly through

The thick and gloomy flanks of cloud;

And thou satst dull and ill at ease,

But, darling, now.... look out abroad!

Beneath the richly woven web

Of dark-blue sky of deepest dye

The snow lies glittering in the sun:

The forest dense alone is black,

The firs are green with hoary rime,

And, bound in ice, the river gleams.

And all the room with amber glow

Is lighted up. The blazing fire

Up chimney flames with crackling gay,

'Tis good to muse in easy-chair: